


when love meets destruction

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Amnesia, Body Horror, Daddy Jared, Drugged Sex, Fisting, Genital Torture, Infidelity, Kidnapping, M/M, Needles, Non-Consensual Bondage, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 02:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16441040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: Jensen gets texts from an unknown number that contain pictures of him, ones of a horrific experience he has no memory of.





	when love meets destruction

**Author's Note:**

> from the tumblr prompt: j2, j1 is texted pictures of himself in various stages of torture that he has no memory of.

Even with coffee and a natural enthusiasm for learning, Jensen hits his absolute limit around hour eleven.

The library is quiet this time of night, golden lit and dotted with other determined creatures like himself, ones with the same hollow-eyed, mindless look in their eyes, like their theses and projects and papers are going to be spectacular by some miracle beyond them. Fuck knows Jensen has been praying to some god or other for the last two hours.

A glance at his phone and he sighs. No. Make that three hours.

His aching, watery eyes scan the notifications from his phone, ones he’s ignored for hours and will continue to ignore until he packs up and heads back to the dorm. Studying in any public space is less than ideal, but Jensen’s nightmare of a roommate and his penchant for smoking weed and playing World of Warcraft loudly in his weird headset means he’s usually elsewhere if he actually wants to get any work done. 

A couple of texts from the boyfriend, one from Chad asking him to bring back some Cheetos when he comes back, and two texts from a number not stored in his phone, both with no words sent, only pictures. Ones too dark to see in the tiny thumbnails on his lowlit phone.

The phone number they’re from doesn’t make sense. Too few digits and no discernible area code. His thumb hovers over the text, about to swipe and delete it without even opening it, but he drops the finger down and lets it load.

And why not? He needs a fucking mental break.

The pictures seem to’ve been taken in a dark room, but the flash used lights up each image with an artificial brightness that makes them easy to see once he opens them properly.

They’re both of him.

In the first one, his eyes are closed, lashes laying long and full on the dark circles under his eyes provided free by nearly 4 years of college. He seems to be sweaty and a little dirty, like he’s just finished a grueling pickup game of basketball or a really good fuck session. His lip is bleeding, but he barely notices it. He’s distracted by the gag tied around his face, dissecting his mouth and pulled so tight it pushes his cheeks up. 

He looks prone and relaxed, unconscious. The shot ends at his shoulders, but they’re bare, pale and delicately freckled in the flash. The mattress beneath him looks dingy.

The next shot finds him awake, his pupils blown prey-wide, his stare focused on the person behind the phone taking the picture. And even though it’s his own goddamn face, Jensen can’t make out the emotion behind the expression. Fear, certainly. But is that surprise? Confusion? Fury? 

Tears are streaking his filthy face, leaving clean tracks in their wake. The gag is still there, but it has its own distraction in this picture; the glinting, razor sharp carving knife at his throat with blood pooled up around where it’s already sunken in.

Jensen doesn’t have the faintest idea when or where these pictures were taken. Or maybe most importantly, who took them. 

He flips back and forth between the photos, memorizing everything he can about them while his pulse races and his stomach drops low and hot, a not-unfamiliar burn of animal fear spreading through his body. But surely this is a joke. A really fucking good Photoshop job or something Chad and his band of idiots did to him when he smoked too much pot with them one night and passed out on the floor. Nothing else makes sense. There’s no way he’d forget this. Impossible.

His phone lights up from where it’s fallen dark in his loose grip, another text notification. Another from the weird number.

This one’s a full body shot, one that makes his face heat up with embarrassment even as his fear deepens immeasurably. He’s trussed up on some kind of block, a sick mixture of an animal ready to be butchered and a pitiful boy in a BDSM porn video restrained for some kind of delicious torture. Consensual, of course.

The snot and tears and blood on Jensen’s own photographed face tell him this was absolutely done without any kind of consent from him.

His legs are lifted and spread, his ankles tied behind his head along with his wrists so that his ass is lifted, his hole presented and vulnerable. His cock is locked up in some kind of cage, one that has his balls gathered up beneath, crushing them between two bars of unforgiving steel. They’re juicy and shaved bare and purple with abuse, and just the sight of them makes Jensen shift in his wooden chair in the middle of the library, caught in a strange feeling of feeling empathy for this pathetic creature before remembering that it’s him.

Another text. He hurries to the new picture like he’s being told a story.

A closeup of all his dirty bits, still tied up and helpless but this time he’s vertical, at least. He’s still caged and crushed like the last picture, but now there’s a line of horrifyingly thick needles piercing through the tender bulge of his perineum, the spacing between them precise, the lines neat. He counts seven needles before he lets his eyes drift down to the bottom of the photo, to the weird pyramid of metal pressing against and into his asshole, one that’s at least three feet tall and spreads out to a nauseating width at the base. He’s being lowered down onto it in the picture, his body weight forcing the broadening shape deeper and deeper into his body.

The sight of blood around the spreading rim makes Jensen drops his phone on the table as bile rises in the back of his throat.

This isn’t a joke. Not a Chad prank. This is real. Very, very, real.

The bathroom is blessedly empty when he pushes his way inside and drops down to the floor beneath the hand dryer, his phone quiet and dark in his trembling fist. He draws his knees up to his chest and presses his forehead against them, trying and failing to slow his breathing, to keep the last three cups of coffee from rising up out of his stomach and leaving him in an acidic splash.

He scrambles away from the pool of his own vomit, moving closer to the stalls and leaning back against one, facing the door. He opens the text convo again and stares at the series of pictures, his own fear making him furious, both at himself and the bastard sending these photos.

_who the fuck is this?? how did you get my number? you’re a sick fuck_

He hits send and watches for the person to reply while his mind races, while he casts back into his memory for any possible time in his life when this could have happened to him. He’s a psych major. He knows that people repress certain traumatic experiences, but wouldn’t he have _some_ memory of this? Even a sense memory?

The phone lights up again. He hesitates before opening the text.

_These are a gift, Jensen. I thought maybe you would want some souvenirs of our time together. Since you don’t seem to remember it on your own._

The next picture comes almost immediately, followed by another, and then another. His breath is leaving him in shallow, gasping sobs now.

He’s badly beaten in the first one, his entire body mottled with bruises in various stages of healing and depth; from the sickly sweet pale green in some places to the fresh puce of the newest ones and the gorgeous purpling black of the worst of them. He’s fought soft and submissive now, he can tell, his arms only tied over his head for decoration. 

There are hooks through his nipples and his balls and the head of his dick in the second picture, all of them pulling up from some device in the ceiling. Blood leaves each one in a dainty trail from the punctures, but his face is strangely serene, his mouth parted and tender beneath the ugly cut that runs from his bottom lip down to the center of his throat.

In the third, his stomach is bulged even though he looks starved, his ribs protruding, their visibility exaggerated by the swell of his belly. For the first time, there’s another person in the picture, a clothed, shadowed figure only visible in the form of a shoulder with an exposed strip skin beneath the black sleeve, some intricate, black tattoo there mostly hidden in shadows.

The rest of the arm is lost deep inside of Jensen’s body, from fingertip to bicep.

Another flurry of texts.

_I miss you, Jensen. I can’t tell you how often I think of you like this. Of having you just like this again._

_Have you ever tasted the blood from deep inside of someone? It’s not something you just forget. I don’t know how much longer I can wait._

_Don’t you think I’ve been very patient?_

Jensen’s fingers fly over the keyboard.

_i’m calling the cops you sick fucking bastard_

Two more pictures. He knows before he even sees them that they’re the worst of the lot.

The carving knife from the other photo is back, only most of it is sunk deep inside of his abdomen, piercing into the soft spread of his vital organs and already starting to slice across. He reaches down to touch his belly, his real, now, living belly, fingers pressing through the layers of his clothes at the scars mottled there, ones he’s self-conscious about but that he now feels betrayed by.

In the last photo, the knife is replaced with a thick, meaty cock. 

It’s penetrating his guts, forced into the place in his stomach where the knife had made room, had sliced through him like he was being sold for parts. It’s lodged deep in the warmth of his viscera, bumping into tender organs and not minding at all the dark red blood oozing up around it, coating the root of the massive dick and the furry balls below. The blur of movement in the picture tells Jensen that he’s being fucked, that this isn’t just for a photo. 

This sadistic fuck sliced into his guts and fucked the wound.

_I sucked the come back out and fed it to you. Don’t you remember? We called it your new pussy. You let me finger it for days._

_The basement is finished now. It’s ready for you. I’m coming to get you now, Jensen._

He’s shaking so hard the phone falls from his grasp, hitting the floor with a loud crack that echos and makes him jump, startled by his own fear. He knows he should leave, knows he should call the police and go back out where there are other people and he’s at least relatively safe, but the little boy in him has him snatching up the phone again and dialing the first number listed in his favorites, tears sliding down his cheeks as he presses the phone to his ear and praying that Jared’s shift is over.

“Hey, beautiful,” comes Jared’s warm, even tone in his ear, his smile audible. “You taking a break?”

“Jared,” he whispers, the word just barely coming out. He’s trembling harder now that he’s taking to Jared, now that he feels even a little safe. The word stands alone in the air, all the others stuck in his throat as he realizes with growing horror that he can never verbally explain to Jared everything that’s just happened.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” Worry deepens Jared’s voice, the kind of competence sliding into place that made Jensen fall for him in the first place. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Library,” he manages, his throat dry, sticking as he tries to swallow. “Bathroom. C-come. Come get me. Come get me.”

“I’ve got one more patient to see, Jen. Just one more and I swear I’ll--”

“Jared. Now. I need you now.” He sounds so small that he has to close his eyes as the self-loathing seeps in, all the disdain he’s ever had for his own subby little boy tendencies blocking out all other emotions for a minute. 

Lucky for him, he’s dating the Daddy of all Daddies.

“Okay.” Jensen can tell Jared’s moving, he’s walking quickly, probably taking off his white coat and heading for the lockers where he keeps his non-doctory clothes. “Okay, I’m on my way. Just… stay where you are. And call the police if you feel like you’re in danger. Do you hear me?”

Jensen nods, words locked up tight inside him. The pictures flood his mind in a vivid series of flashes, the ghost of all the pain inflicted in them making his body tense up, making it hurt in fresh, specific places.

“Say ‘yes, Sir’,” Jared says, so authoritative that Jensen snaps to attention immediately, his voice shaking but he echos Jared’s words back to him as clearly as he can.

“Ten minutes,” is the last thing Jared says before he hangs up, leaving Jensen alone again.

Those ten minutes pass by in slow motion, dragging on sluggishly as Jensen tucks up into a tighter ball in the corner and thumbs through the pictures over and over again, everything about him strangely numb, mechanical.

He barely reacts when the door opens.

Strong arms lift him up off the ground like he weighs nothing, and Jared’s warm, familiar scent takes over his senses, making him whimper as softly as he can as he wraps his arms around Jared’s neck and holds on as he’s carried out of the bathroom and through the library like a child.

It doesn’t feel as odd as it maybe should. For nearly a year now, this is how the relationship between them has unfolded, allowing them both to slip into their respective roles and find profound comfort in it, in each other.

Plus, Jared’s got three kids under ten at home. He’s more than used to hauling around fragile things that depend on him.

“Daph’s in Michigan with the kids to visit her mom for the week. You’re coming home with me.” There’s no question there, so Jensen doesn’t respond. Just hugs Jared tighter and buries his face into the heat of his neck so he can breathe him in. He can hear his own bag as it bumps against Jared’s hip, giving Jensen some kind of distant relief that his computer and all his work isn’t just abandoned at the cluttered library table.

He wraps around Jared’s right arm the whole drive home, soothed by the sound of the Challenger’s engine and the familiar rhythm of Jared shifting gears under his embrace. Jensen hasn’t felt safe near any car in the year since the accident, the one that he has no memory of that left him nearly dead and at the mercy of science and the capable doctors who saved him, in the end.

Especially Doctor Padalecki, who operated on him for hours, who arranged every comfort and scan and test and stayed with him as often as he could. The doctor who saved his life and who had held Jensen’s heart in his hands in every possible way by the time Jensen was released into the custody of his parents to continue his recovery.

Jensen had lost his virginity in the intensive care ward, drugged so much that he was relaxed and pliant when Jared pressed up inside of him, slicked up with plenty of lube and fucking him carefully in a failed attempt at not busting any of stitches in Jensen’s lacerated colon. Jensen had cried and told Doctor Padalecki he loved him, and Jared had given him another loving dose of morphine and told him to sleep after he cleaned up the blood and come from Jensen’s hospital bed.

It had been worth the extra week and a half in the hospital. It had been worth everything.

And he’s twenty now instead of nineteen, but he feels a whole lot younger when Jared’s around. When Jared’s here to take care of him. And Jared’s car doesn’t scare him at all.

The house is dark when they get there, and Jensen feels the same thrill walking through the front door that he always does, like he’s Jared’s wife instead of Daphne, like this is his house, his kitchen, his big bed that he shares with his sexy, brilliant husband.

The pictures on his phone feel like a distant nightmare when Jared strips him down and fucks him in the bed he sleeps in with his wife, his hands gripping at Jensen’s hips and thighs and stomach hard enough to bruise as he punches him soft inside, leaving Jensen loose and leaking and aching so good all over by the time Jared is done using him.

Jared leaves briefly to shower and to FaceTime with Daphne and the kids to say goodnight, and Jensen is nearly asleep by the time he returns, fresh and clean and solid as he presses up to Jensen’s back and wraps his arms around him.

“Tomorrow we’ll talk,” Jared says quietly against his ear, his cock mostly soft where it’s lodged into the small of Jensen’s back. “And you’ll tell me what’s going on. But you need to sleep tonight.”

He feels the soft prick of a needle in his arm and he smiles, grateful that Jared always knows exactly what he needs, that he knows how Jensen needs to be taken care of when Jensen can’t even explain it himself.

The drug goes to work in his bloodstream immediately, his whole body softening like he’s melting, his lips parting on a grateful sigh as he slumps back against Jared.

Some strange detail catches in his mind just before he loses consciousness, the flash of ink on an exposed bicep in one of the pictures he was sent tonight. Just simple linework, delicate, carefully drawn curves of four flowers, one bigger than the other three, all of them representing a family: a wife and three children.

His heart thuds in a single beat of horrified alarm, of realization, but he slips into sleep in the same second, his hand falling away from Jared’s arm where he’d been clutching to him in vain, four tattooed flowers visible now in the near dark.


End file.
